


your lips are a conversation (that face is a song)

by Ymae



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: AU of some sorts but with time travel and everything, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ava is a Mess, F/F, Sara's scars, and there was only one tent!, for Sara, very brief Sara/John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymae/pseuds/Ymae
Summary: It's terrible timing if any, and Ava really didn't plan to fall for a complete stranger on the worst holiday ever, but the more Sara looks at her, the less she can feel herself resist.ORAva runs in on two strangers in the middle of a crowded camping site, and what might have been the worst night ever turns into the best one.





	your lips are a conversation (that face is a song)

**Author's Note:**

> So... this takes place in some kind of AU where Sara and Ava met at a later point in time. The Legends still exist, as does the Time Bureau, although it wasn't Rip who founded it. Honestly I'm not completely sure.  
I wrote big parts of this in a literal moving car while going camping, with an actual pen and paper, so bear with me. I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to know your thoughts :)

_Your lips are a conversation _

_That face is a song _

_If it's my imagination _

_Stop me if I'm wrong, yeah _

_you can be cool, you can be shy_

_say what you want, say what you like _

‘_cause oh, your body talks, your body talks _

_oh, oh, your body talks _

‘_Body Talks’ by the Struts _

* * *

Raindrops travel along her hairline, making her hair stick to her face and the water cloud her eyes.

Ava growls. If her ‘vacation’ wasn’t already the worst ever, she’d dub it that in a second after this disaster.

She can only hope that her tent had withstood the rain, but Ava has never been adept at camping, and honestly, when she built up the tent her eyes were clouded with tears. It’s a wonder it’s even managed to hold itself up with how aggressively she’d hammered the tent pegs into the ground.

This has, without doubt, been the absolute worst week ever. And it’s only getting worse. Her food, the loaf of bread and butter she barely remembered to pack, is soaking wet, and she keeps _stumbling_ over those fucking _other people’s tents_ and really, why was she stubborn enough to go through with this plan after—

There it is. A small relief, at least, that her tent isn’t so far away as she’d thought.

On top of all, she left the light on.

Just great.

Spare batteries? Of course, she doesn’t have those. Ava had been impulsive for once in her life, and look where it’s brought her. She’ll be sure to tell Mona all about this when she’s home. That girl can shove her ‘spontaneity’ up her ass where it belonged.

_Calm down,_ Ava reminds herself as she reaches down to unzip the tent flap. She remembers to pull off her shoes and tosses them somewhere in the grass—she isn’t going to leave this tent until the morning _at least, _and if the rain hasn’t stopped until then—

“Pardon me, love, but we’re a little busy here.”

“Oh my god!”

Ava leaps back.

“Unless you’d like to join?” A very British voice mocks her. A very British man’s voice. A _naked_ man’s voice. A naked man who is _winking _at her, making no move to cover himself. “I’m sure Sara here wouldn’t mind.”

Ava blushes furiously.

A blonde woman, thankfully covered to her hips (but not _above,_ Ava’s useless gay inner voice reminds her) sits up, gives Ava a smile that has _no business_ being _this_ pretty, and gives her a little half-wink.

And god, that has another impact on Ava entirely than the man’s had.

Why is she being so useless? Especially _now._

And oh, the woman— _Sara—_notices. It’s infuriating, the smugness on her face.

“What are you doing in my tent?” Ava blurts, staring at the couple that, still, makes no move to cover themselves, and feeling her blush deepen into an angry one.

“Your tent?” Sara raises her eyebrow. And her voice, _her voice,_ has no business sounding this _cute._ “Last time I checked _this_ one wasn’t stolen. _John._” She turns to the man, half-glaring at him.

“Wasn’t me this time,” John shrugs. “It’s Ray’s.”

“You borrowed Ray’s Eagle Scout tent?” Sara seems dubious for a second. Then she turns back to Ava, who is trying _very_ hard not to stare at this stranger’s boobs. This very attractive stranger, she’ll give her that. “Looks like you’re in the wrong tent, uh—”

“Director Sharpe,” Ava says, on instinct, even managing to keep a straight face, considering what she most wants to do is slap herself. Or slap the British guy, who has the audacity to take out his pack of cigarettes. In a _tent._ And to respond to Sara’s half-hearted glare with a wink that makes Ava’s stomach turn.

“I better help you find your tent, then, _Director Sharpe,_” Sara replies before Ava can punch John or dig herself a hole in the ground, or do other things she’d regret. Probably.

“So does that mean we’re not finishing up, then?” John grumbles, already fumbling for his pants. Sara gives him a slap over the head and makes a mock-sympathetic noise. Ava is trying very hard not to look at them, and wonders why she hasn’t already left. It can’t possibly because of how blue Sara’s eyes are in the light of the lamp, or because of the map of scars lining her shoulders and collarbone—all of which, of course, Ava only looked at accidentally, in the passing.

John finally gives up on finding his shirt and shoes, and settles on lighting his cigarette. “Thanks a lot, pet,” he grumbles into Ava’s direction, and ducks out into the pouring rain.

“Is his tent nearby?” Ava asks, despite herself, immediately trying to fill the awkward silence.

A silence that Sara herself does not, in fact, seem to find very awkward. She reaches behind her and produces a simple blue shirt.

“Ah, John? Doesn’t have a tent here that I know of. Or a car. But he’ll be fine, probably.” She turns a little as she draws the shirt over her head, and instantly, Ava forgets all traces of the blonde woman’s companion.

(And it’s not even about the muscles she sees playing under her skin, the freckles across her shoulder blades. Those are… those are certainly there, and distracting, but it’s not even _that._)

The scar tissue on Sara’s back is… extensive, to say the least. And Ava has seen a _lot_ of scars—she has some herself, as is practically unavoidable in her line of duty. But this is… this is very different. Combined with Sara’s bright smile as she turns around, this just hurts.

These marks were definitely not all put there by accident, not the clean lines on her back, and not the three clear entry wounds on her stomach and chest (though they don’t look like bullets, exactly.) For a second, Ava’s throat closes up as she wonders who inflicted this kind of pain on this stranger.

But only for a second. Then the shirt is over Sara’s head, and she’s smirking at Ava, saying, “Let’s find your tent, then, _Director Sharpe,_ so you don’t have to run into anyone else’s nasty business tonight, explode that red head of yours,” predictably making Ava’s blush even deeper.

(She isn’t even the kind of girl who _blushes._)

“I’ll go find my shoes, _if_ they’re still there,” she responds, with a little more bite in her voice than necessary considering she’s still staying at this stranger’s side (and also interrupted her mid-sex, which… Ava isn’t usually a prude, not even when it comes to straight people… is Sara straight? No, not a good train of thought right now, not when Sara is) so close. They are kneeling face to face in the cold grass.

It makes Ava uncomfortable, except maybe it doesn’t.

“Oof, it’s wet out here,” Sara notices, stretching. And finally, now that they’re in the dark, Ava manages to pull herself together and find her shoes.

* * *

“I am, uh… I apologize if I scared off your, uh, boyfriend,” Ava says stiffly as they’re walking into the direction where she originally thought her tent to be.

“Oh, John?” Sara laughs, her walk somehow infinitely more graceful than Ava’s even in comfy pants and her flimsy shirt. “He’s not my _boyfriend._ We’re just…” she glances sideways at Ava, as though she’s sizing her up, and Ava is trying very hard to ignore what that sets loose in her chest.

It’s such a bad point in time to be this attracted to anyone. What with her being promoted director, and with…

Sara’s gaze lets her off the hook a little. “Fuck buddies,” she says bluntly. “I’ve been through some stuff lately—” her eyes dart off a little, darkening, and her hand goes to her necklace as if on instinct, while Ava’s mind wanders to the other woman’s scars, old and fresh, wondering what exactly Sara means by ‘lately,’ “and John’s, you know, easy, and good in bed, and almost as damaged as I am.”

The strange moment of vulnerability blows over before Ava can say anything—before she can give in to the inexplicable urge to protest Sara’s description of herself.

It comes to her that she hasn’t thought of Max for a while, or of her work, and that maybe this strange evening with this strange woman won’t be so bad.

“So, Director Sharpe, tell me of this thing you’re the boss of… insurance company? Car rental? Golf club?”

Or maybe it’s just the rain and general fucking _cold_ that make Ava forget.

It certainly isn’t the radiance of Sara’s smile, the goosebumps on her bare arms that she doesn’t seem to mind.

The way she makes Ava suddenly lose her voice, wipe the standard answer to the job question from her mind. She can’t exactly tell her where she really works, either, even though she finds herself wanting to. Even though she’s sure Sara wouldn’t blink an eye at the existence of Ava’s organization, the very secret with which Max was never able to cope with.

Her silence doesn’t give Sara a pause, though.

“So, Director Sharpe, where’s this tent of yours supposed to be?”

“Ava.”

Sara raises her brow. “You gave your tent a name?”

Ava feels herself flushing once again, stumbling over her words in a manner very unlike herself. “No. Ava… me, I’m Ava, that’s my name.”

Sara grins. “Hi, then, Director Ava Sharpe, I’m Sara never-even-finished-college Lance. Nice to meet you now that we both have clothes on. Not saying it has to be a permanent state of self, though,” which, annoyingly, makes Ava wonder how comfortable sex in a tent could _really_ be, before she stops dead in her tracks.

“Ava?” Sara stands behind her, worry lining her tone. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Ava answers instinctively. “I mean, uh, this is where my tent is supposed to be. That’s my car.”

Ava’s finger is pointing on a soaked, and very much empty, spot of soil. A few tent pegs are still stuck in the ground, along with the shredded remains of the floor of Ava’s tent. She looks around. Several tents in her vicinity are uprooted or disheveled, with people cursing all around, wandering about collecting their belongings.

“So…” Sara says into the silence, “Was there anything important in that thing?”

“I never leave anything in my tent. That’s completely irresponsible—what if it gets stolen? What if—” Ava cuts herself off, realizing that she’s rambling, and also remembering how Sara dropped everything in favor of helping a complete stranger find her stupidly empty and lightweight tent.

Not that Sara seems to mind. “Then sorry about your tent, I guess.”

“It’s actually no problem. It belongs to my girlfriend.” Sara perks up at that. “To my _ex-_girlfriend Max, who I planned this trip for even though I _hate_ camping, and who broke up with me right after my boss _got eaten_ because she thinks I_ work too much_.” Ava has gotten louder until the frustration in her voice is audible. She’s frustrated and she’s fucking _angry_ at herself for making this trip anyway, and for missing Max, and for not missing her like she thought she would, and for running in on two strangers fucking in the middle of a crowded camping site while it’s raining, and she’s angry because it’s so cold and everything is wet and Sara is far more attractive and smug and intriguing than she has any right to be.

And then Sara laughs. “Your boss got _eaten_? No wonder you’ve got a stick up those ironed pants of yours,” and suddenly, Ava starts laughing, too. She laughs like she hasn’t in weeks, all giggles and snorting and tears in the corners of her eyes. And all the while, she’s looking at Sara laughing, and Sara is looking at her.

* * *

Instead of lightening up, all the rain does is get heavier, until Ava can barely see. With a sigh, she prepares her goodbyes. “Sara… uh, Ms. Lance, thank you for accompanying me here, but I better get into my car before I catch a cold.”

Sara arches a brow. “You’re gonna sleep in your car.”

“My tent blew away. Where else would I go?”

“_My_ tent,” Sara suggests, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it’s completely normal to see a random stranger naked and then get invited for a spontaneous sleepover. “Wouldn’t want you to be in bad shape and get eaten, too, would we? Besides, I’m pretty sure we’ve verified that there’s enough space for two in there.”

“I couldn’t—” Ava protests, in all seriousness, because no, after Max, she _cannot_ be falling this hard, this fast, even if it’s just attraction, giving in to Sara’s undeniable charms, and with every one of Sara’s smiles, the less Ava can feel herself resist.

“You will. You even left your window open. You’re lucky your car didn’t get stolen, but it’s gonna be hella cold and wet in there,” Sara notices.

And somehow, before she can even turn around to confirm Sara’s observation, before she can even list all the reasons that this isn’t a good idea—for all Ava knows, Sara could very well be a serial killer, or an assassin—no, okay, that’s absurd—Ava finds herself agreeing, anyway. After all, it’s only for one night.

* * *

And _what_ a fucking night, Ava thinks. And they haven’t even lain down yet.

“I, uh… I forgot to take my sleeping bag. I’ll be right back.”

Sara laughs at her, her eyes twinkling as she catches Ava’s wrist, and oh _hell,_ all of a sudden, Ava seems incapable of making any sound other than a low gasp at the warmth of Sara’s skin on her skin.

“You’re not going out there again, Sharpe,” Sara tells her, no room for argument in her voice.

“But—I don’t have my bag, my pillow, or my toothbrush, or anything to wear—”

“For Beebo’s sake,” Sara mutters under her breath, and Ava thinks she must have gone a little crazy. Sara doesn’t offer an explanation, though, instead keeps holding on to Ava’s wrist, pointing at the second sleeping bag with her free hand.

“Take this one. Constantine won’t need it, tonight, anyway. You made sure of that.” And she winks.

Ava looks at her, horrified. Before she can hold herself back—censor her words to be polite, digestible, like she does for most people she interacts with, for old straight white men like Hank Heywood—she blurts, “No way I’m sleeping in _his_ bag. I’d honestly rather die.”

And oh, that only makes Sara move closer to Ava, cheeks flush with _something_, something that is surely _not _reflected in Ava’s eyes—or maybe it is, with her self-control out of the window like this.

“Been there, done that, and believe me, it hurts a little more than sleeping in John Constantine’s bed,” Sara whispers, a low, throaty sound that doesn’t at all match her words—makes Ava torn between what she can, as a capable adult, all too clearly classify _desire,_ and the urge to look closely at the broken edges in Sara’s eyes.

“Though maybe only a tiny bit, judging by your expression,” Sara goes on, leaning back, giving them both space, her voice a little lighter now.

It’s both a relief and a deep loss.

_Fuck,_ Ava thinks.

Maybe a one-night-stand would be the least of her problems right now.

Maybe the hues and shadows, the dapples of light and splashes of something dark red, almost like blood, that Sara lets her see beneath her surface, only for a second, those are the real problem.

Because Ava isn’t _crushing on her_, like a smitten teenager, like she was with Max, at the beginning.

And she’s not just _attracted to her, _ either—it’s not quite _falling, _not yet, but she’s standing dangerously close to Sara’s cliffs. Not staring over the edge, but listening to the rush of the deep waters she might find if she dared to look.

And—and Ava’s not a poet. She’s not a fan of words. She’s not a fan of deeply, quickly, irreversibly; she likes steady relations built on friendship, on flirty smiles and awkward dates.

She’s okay with the quick attraction found on a makeshift holiday, blonde hair, blue eyes, in, out. It’s not quite like her but it’s _normal._ It’s something that _happens._

Scars and _damage_ and three entry holes that should not, could not, have been survived do _not_ happen. And they don’t happen to Ava. They don’t happen to be run in, on accident. They don’t happen to match with a blinding smile and teasing that makes Ava feel good and _alive_. They don’t happen to form something, someone, like Sara, who Ava would have been infuriated by in any other situation.

But Sara is there, and she’s infuriating, and beautiful in the dim light in a way that Ava can’t comprehend. And she’s drawing her shirt over her head, again, saying, “I don’t like being soaked like this,” and before Ava can sneak another look at her—her scars, her freckles, her abs, whatever part of herself Sara is ready to reveal—she’s dressed again, throwing her wet shirt out of the tent into the grass because, “Gideon can fabricate some anyway,” not that Ava knows what that’s supposed to mean.

“About your sleeping bag problem,” Sara addresses her, and it’s just now that Ava realizes she hasn’t spoken in a while. “I’ll take John’s, and you get mine. I hope you’re not _too_ repulsed by that idea.”

“You wish, Lance,” Ava retorts, and it feels like regaining control and the complete and irreversible loss of it at the same time. “There is, however, still the issue of the clothes.”

“Ah, yeah. I think John must’ve left his shirt and socks.”

Ava gapes, horrified, and catches herself just a second too late to see Sara burst out in laughter. “Jesus, Ava, you should see your face.”

Ava would be embarrassed if her cheeks weren’t already heating up from hearing her name come out of Sara’s mouth.

“Idiot,” she mutters under her breath, not entirely sure if she’s talking about Sara or herself. (Probably both.)

“Here, you’re a little tall, but you can take mine. If it’s good enough for you, _Director,_” Sara offers, apparently unable to open her mouth for anything but teasing Ava.

“I’m a little tall? Rather you’re a little tiny,” Ava replies, her tone all but matching Sara’s, and it’s _weird_ how comfortable she is bickering with this woman she’s just met.

Sara holds out her clothes for her, and this ridiculous thought of asking Sara to turn around crosses Ava’s mind, but before she can make any decision as foolish as that, Sara opens her mouth again. “Do you need me to cover my eyes, or can we be _adults_ in here?” Her tone all but suggesting the opposite of her proposition.

Which was, of course, not meant to be taken seriously in the first place. (Is anything with this woman?) So Ava gets over herself and quickly draws her shirt over her head. There’s a crossing of lines here that she doesn’t usually get the opportunity for, and Sara seems to notice it, so she doesn’t say a word when Ava prefers to take off her bra under her—Sara’s—shirt.

She’s not that—she could never even have taken off her shirt within the first day of meeting Max.

Not that Sara is like Max. In fact, in almost all ways, she is quite the opposite of Max.

She’s Sara. She’s here with Ava and, to be honest, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

Not that she’d admit that.

God, she’s getting lost in her thoughts again.

Taking her to places she wants to go so _badly_ but that have only just opened up to her and it would be… too soon.

Too soon to lean forward again, try to make Sara nervous the way she made Ava. Try to see if she can get her to blush. If she can make her flustered, if she can make Sara’s breath catch. If she can shut up her endlessly teasing voice by kissing those lips of hers.

There’s something pooling low in Ava’s stomach, something that should be stopped by the uncomfortable ground or the shirt that’s just a little too short or the fact that Sara had had sex with someone else in this very tent, this very spot, not even two hours ago, but it’s not.

Ava has never felt this, this instant attraction. She’s always had to figure out first, _does she like girls? Is this pining mutual? Do I like you or am I just attracted to you? Do I like you or am I just lonely? _

With Sara, it’s… not that. She’s very clearly into women, she’s very clearly into _Ava_, flirting with her, and it’s not because Ava is—it’s not because she’s lonely. She’s just out of a relationship, and she’d meant to take a breath, focus on her work, on securing her standing in the Bureau.

But… now.

Now, she could care less about her work. She could care less about the fact that this is almost _too easy._ That no one as beautiful and interesting as Sara could ever approach her first.

Okay, maybe not quite—it had been Ava who’d run into her, after all—but it was Sara who’d tested the waters first, who’d made comments about the permanence of their clothing when she’d barely even known her name.

And, okay, maybe Sara flirts like this with anyone, and she’s probably not looking for a relationship—like she’d said, she’d had a rough time lately, and it doesn’t seem like just a tight spot at work, or even a failed eight-month relationship—it doesn’t seem like any of these things could bring Sara down.

And that’s exactly the reason why Ava can’t bring herself to care about… any of this.

Because, right now, she’s in a small tent with a really, _really_ hot woman, and a voice in her head, previously unknown, tells her to _fuck it _and_ make the best of it. _

So she crawls into her sleeping bag, trying to move in Sara’s clothes in a way that doesn’t make them too tight at just the wrong places, but yeah, it helps a little that they’re _Sara’s_ clothes.

A little worn on top of that, which normally Ava would be offended by, but now they smell unfamiliar, like _Sara_ probably if Ava could get close enough to take in her scent.

Okay—okay, she’s bordering on creepy.

Sara, meanwhile, has made herself comfortable in her own sleeping bag, using her right arm as a pillow, facing Ava with attentive eyes.

Ava, who is suddenly, now that it’s quiet, that there is nothing left to do, aware that she’s in a stranger’s tent. In a stranger’s clothes.

Acting like she’s a… a _friend,_ someone Sara doesn’t mind being annoyed by.

But—she’s not.

She doesn’t even want to be Sara’s friend. Not—first. She wants to get close to her first, catch that lively face of hers in her hands, look her deep in the eyes. Kiss her _senseless._

That’s what she wants.

What she does—

“Uh, I just realized I never said a proper thank you. So… thank you. For taking me in. I appreciate it.”

—what she does is _this._

Sara seems bemused.

“I just realized I never said a proper ‘you’re welcome,’ Director Sharpe,” she replies cheekily. “Or apologized, for having your innocent gay eyes see John naked.”

“I never said I was gay,” Ava protests. “I could be bi, or pan, or—”

“If you list ‘straight’ as an option, you’re the most closeted out lesbian I’ve ever met,” Sara snorts. “Because I have excellent gaydar, thank you very much, and you kind of also mentioned an ex-girlfriend—”

“Ah, yes,” Ava says awkwardly. “I guess you win, then.”

“Now, that must’ve been hard to say, Director Sharpe.”

“Ava is just fine, actually.”

“You literally called me ‘Ms. Lance’ like half an hour ago, _Ava,_” Sara reminds her, and Ava is barely even aware that she’s scooting closer, so caught in the moment and in the sweetness of her name on Sara’s lips.

She doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Not that she’s gotten even one half-decent sentence out of her mouth since she met Sara.

“Regardless, thank you, uh… Sara. I’ll obviously pay you for the night.”

Sara rolls her eyes so hard Ava is afraid it might physically hurt.

“Or you could repay me by shutting up, like, right now,” she says, her voice catching that low tone again, and Ava almost closes her eyes, thinking _now_ is it, she’s fine just surrendering to this, as long as Sara will scoot closer, so close Ava can feel her breath on her lips, her tongue in her mouth—

_Fuck. Holy fuck. _

She’s _screwed._

Sara looks at her curiously, and Ava feels the heat rise in her face, as though Sara can somehow see in her head, read her mind and her as of _yet_ still fairly innocent thoughts… that are nonetheless inappropriate.

“I didn’t mean, like, you should literally shut up, at this moment,” Sara tells her, her voice a mixture of slight worry and laughter. “Just shut up about that money crap.”

_Make me, _Ava thinks, and bites the inside of her cheek.

She notices her own breaths coming heavy, her eyes lingering on Sara’s face, her eyes, her lips, a few seconds too long.

She thought there was something—she thought there was mutually perceived chemistry, like either of them could be making the first move any second now—but Sara just lies there, enclosed in this small space with Ava, yet still too far away—she just lies there and looks at Ava like she doesn’t _get_ it, like she doesn’t _want, _and all Ava can do is look right back, breathless. Take in the electricity buzzing in Sara’s eyes, the few loose strands of hair falling over her face.

She doesn’t know this woman, not really, not at all, but it feels like—it doesn’t feel like they knew each other before—it feels like they _will_ know each other.

Ava doesn’t believe in past lives. She believes firmly in the past, its fragility as well as its need for stability; that’s her job. She doesn’t know if she believes in the present; she usually hangs out in the 2010s, now, but she’s long since given up a real present in favor of a time-spanning job.

But she believes in the future.

And she believes in _moments._ Time is made up of them, stacked, crammed into each other, layer over layer, and yet ever so much space to be filled.

She can go to the time of the dinosaurs or jump two millennia ahead, but she can’t manipulate the moments. Skip them. Navigate them. She can only live them.

The pretense of naivety crumbles from Sara’s face like dust. She grins—her expression the epitome of _you should see your face_—and then she scoots a little closer, in a motion that doesn’t seem quite like her, looking at Ava as if looking for permission.

But Ava is _gone._ She doesn’t notice Sara’s pause, or her brief intermission of insecurity. She only gets closer, and it’s the answer to a question she didn’t know she was asked.

And then Sara leans forward, quite simply. She kisses her.

It’s short, and chaste, because _really, _ a first kiss shouldn’t happen while lying on hard ground, and so Sara wraps her arms around Ava and gets her into a sitting position. She doesn’t let go of her lips—it’s their first kiss, and it wouldn’t be them if they didn’t make it long and _good, _ and it is, Sara’s lips are so soft, teasing, demanding, and Ava gives so willingly and she _takes_.

They soak each other up like there’s a story in their desire much bigger than the one they’ve already told.

* * *

The shirt is over Sara’s head quickly, not for the first time this evening—and Sara’s shirt is off of Ava, and then they zip open their sleeping bags and scoot their camping pads together and make the best of it, and honestly, it’s the very best of everything with Sara in Ava’s arms. And Ava can now feel the map of rough patches and carved lines on Sara’s skin, and she keeps kissing her, and hopes there is time to ask, later.

Tomorrow.

The day after that.

* * *

_Gideon, _Ava suddenly thinks, something Sara said coming to her mind, and she remembers a thin file of a rogue team traveling through time, the names of the ship’s Captain and crew blacked out.

She remembers a prisoner in one of their cells, an annoying British guy with a weird name, long escaped, babbling about some _Legends_ fixing reality and breaking time. She doesn’t remember their names, or maybe he didn’t give them.

She remembers being mildly intrigued while pretending to be scandalized, digging up the file.

She remembers the brief note on the Captain, a vigilante who overcame death. She remembers a team of screw-ups, dropping the file in disappointment. She remembers a ship called the _Waverider_ and an AI answering to the name of—Gilbert? Gina?

_Gideon. _

Three entry wounds that should not, could not, and have not been survived.

More than one lifetime hiding in clear blue eyes.

Ava is kissing Sara.

The thoughts flash through her mind for a second, then they’re gone, replaced by the sensation of Sara’s hands caressing Ava’s neck.

Ava knows… _something_, now.

It doesn’t matter.

Not at this moment.

At this moment, Ava believes in the past, the present, the future.

There’s enough future left for this mystery.

Right now, they’re piling up moments on moments.

Sara is kissing Ava.

Every moment is precious.

Every moment is divine.

Every moment is theirs.

* * *

“I made you coffee.”

Ava smiles, blinks, then fully wakes up.

“Ugh, it’s hot in here.”

“Then come out! I didn’t take you for a late sleeper.”

“I’m not,” Ava protests, opening the tent flap and crawling outside.

Sara greets her with a kiss.

Then a smirk.

“Must’ve worn you out, then. Here’s your coffee. By the way, you’re cute when you blush.”

Ava ducks her head, flushed cheeks because how could she _not,_ and takes the mug. (It’s metal and pretty scratched-up, and immediately heats up. This is why she hates camping.)

(Yes, she still hates camping. Just… just, maybe, not this trip.)

(Just, definitely, not last night.)

“I don’t normally take coffee on holiday, actually—caffeine isn’t the best for the body, and if I don’t have to, it’s good to take a break—”

“Mhm, of course you don’t _have _to drink it, but you’re gonna want to be awake for this, Sharpe.” Sara grins.

Ava tilts her head a bit, and kisses her.

“You’re smooth, Lance.”

“Can’t say the same about you, but I think I like you anyway. If that’s okay.”

That earns Sara a sigh—and then a bright smile, with only the slightest tint of insecure.

“Mm. That’s more than okay.”

* * *

“Freeze!”

“Hands in the air!”

“Don’t move! Don’t move!”

“Stay right there!”

“Hello, everyone. Welcome. On the floor, hands behind your heads.”

“I’m sorry, there must be some kind of mistake, we’re the—_Legends_—”

“Oh, I know _exactly _who you losers are.”

Sara bites back a laugh, winks apologetically at Ray on the floor, puts her hands down, and stands up.

She hears Nate protest. “Come on, Sara, there’s too many of them, you’re gonna get yourself—”

“You look hot in that,” Sara comments, stepping up to Ava, going on her toes and kissing her. Despite herself, Ava melts into it—into _her, _into Sara—“Director Sharpe.”

The agents surrounding them gape, their guns lowered in confusion. Ray’s and Nate’s faces are scrunched up, and Sara would feel a little bit sorry if she wasn’t on the edge of bursting out laughing.

“Another anachronism, babe?” Ava asks, sighing at how much Sara seems to enjoy this. But, sooner or later, this was going to have to happen, and it wouldn’t be _Sara_ (or Ava, really) if she didn’t have a bit of fun introducing her.

“Hm, yeah. Decided you need to meet my family. And Julius Caesar, apparently.”

Ava rolls her eyes, but slings her arms around Sara, nonetheless. She wants to feel her. To hold her close, make sure she’s alright, as unharmed as she ever is (which, frankly, doesn’t mean much). They aren’t able to see much of each other, what with the anachronisms flowing over in the trash can that is history, and with the Bureau strictly condemning rogues time travelers. Time couriers and jump ships make it a bit easier, but sometimes, when Sara turns up on screen in a Viking outfit while Ava is stuck in Victorian England, it feels like they’re leading the longest-distance relationship on the planet. “You know, you absolutely just ruined my reputation as—”

“A stone-cold bitch?”

“You took the ‘losers’ part personally, didn’t you?”

Sara grins. “_Very _ personally. I’ll show you later just _how_ personally I took it.” She turns around to her team members, makes a mock salute in the direction of Ava’s employees.

“Everyone! May I introduce Ava Sharpe. My girlfriend.”

And oh, doesn’t that make it all worth it.


End file.
